by Ellen Mint
Tristan’s heart stopped, his finger hovering over the screen to scroll for more. Where was she going with this? Was it a buildup to revealing his past? Then why mention art in general?
I was tasked with interviewing Tristan Harty, whom most remember for his hit single My Half from the album bearing his name. While I could describe his attire—meticulous when he was performing, comfortable and wholesome when not—or what he ate during the interview, I see no point.
There are few facts known about Mr. Harty that truly hold water. While his fans know his break came courtesy of a local New York daytime talk show, the average person might be aware of his rise to join the heights of other late ’90s bands. But in the matter of his fall, there is naught but conjecture and hearsay. It was not avarice by his own demons or untrustworthy friends from his inner circle that brought him low. Nor was it an inability to innovate, a fandom aging out of his style, nor simply exhaustion.
No, what chased Mr. Harty from the world of music was us. The world demands a blood sacrifice for what it gives. In exchange for fame, for a modest fortune, it wants a story to salivate. What it craves most is tragedy, one that the artist must mention endlessly, forever reliving for us while standing upon the world stage of entertainment. They must wrap their pain around themselves and wear it as a coat they can never remove. Otherwise, we would cease caring.
I was gifted a unique experience with Mr. Harty—a man often described as cold, distant, as unreadable as a frozen pond. I too believed the first impression, finding him bafflingly callow and aloof…
A smile knotted around Tristan’s lips to find he’d guessed somewhat right.
…but in the snowy mountains of Vermont, I discovered a man I’d never have known otherwise. He suffers pains, same as many other people in this world, pain no amount of fame can cure. Laughter in the form of surprising self-deprecation. Warmth radiates from him that every other interviewer before missed, because they wanted that pain and not the joy. They wanted the loss and not the gain. They wanted a story and not a truth.
I, for one, am glad that Mr. Harty has given us a second chance. After the world was robbed of his songs for nearly ten years, we will once again be gifted the opportunity to hear both his classics and enthralling new ones. We must look differently at our artists, to stop demanding that they suffer for our amusement, to alleviate the pang to the ego because we are incapable of doing what they can. The task of creating, of brightening this world with a reflection of itself, is a continuous struggle when someone’s boot is on your neck. When hands help pull an artist up and give them the room to breathe, imagine the amazing splendors that can be gifted to the world.
It’s up to you to decide which world you want to see, but I know the perfect soundtrack to grace its new dawn.
This is Beth Cho for Thorn. If you liked my articles you can find me…
The bottom of the article smudged as drizzle built in Tristan’s eyes. He moved to swipe it away but nearly sent the tablet tumbling from his tentative fingers. She hadn’t sold him out. Hadn’t ripped open his old wounds and twisted them to her advantage. She…she’d spun gold from straw and he’d once called her a glorified blogger.
“Uh huh, yeah, Tuesday works great.” Barry’s on-the-phone voice punctuated through Tristan’s enlightenment. Planting a hand to his knee, he glanced over his shoulder to watch the manager nod vehemently and raise a thumb in the air. After ending the call, he kissed his phone and shouted, “That was the Morning Show!”
“Which one?”
“No, the Morning Show with the trademark and everything. Nationally syndicated. They read the article and want you on to talk about it, along with a musical segment.”
The studio had shaken its head on any national news segments for his tour, no one caring about a washed-up songwriter putting out a Christmas album. And now…! Tristan’s leap of glee was postponed as he glanced down at the illuminated words that had made it possible. How he’d stomped on her heart without a second thought, hadn’t even waited for an explanation. Just once again assumed the worst and run to brood in his cave.
“Kid!” Barry threw his arms around Tristan and tried to haul him into the air in a great bear hug. Where it would have lifted him off his feet as a kid, Tristan remained stubbornly on the ground. “This is fantastic! Oh shit, we gotta get you cleaned up.” A professional look took in the mountain of stubble clumping off his chin and jaw. No doubt his eyes were red from first the drink and drama, now the swallowed tears.
Tristan nodded along as Barry laid out the plan to freshen him up before the big time. While his manager hunted for a reputable spa to slot in a prickly customer on short notice, Tristan scrolled back to her picture. Was she doing well? The article had to be a good boost, but how was her book coming along? Or her friend’s kitten? The need to hear her voice, to listen to her thoughts, to touch her sweet lips, clanged down his nerves like a bass hit.
“When is it?” Tristan asked, throwing a wrench into Barry’s surge in scheduling. “The TV appearance?”
“Tuesday morning, nine-thirty a.m. Which means us waking at five and me having to listen to you make those godawful gargling noises.” Barry groaned about the tuning-up exercises, but it was all in jest. He was clearly over the moon at this unexpected score. From death and scurrying under a rock to shining in the national spotlight. It was all thanks to her.
Hauling up the guitar, for the first time in an age, inspiration struck Tristan. He hooked the strap over his neck and began to play. As the vibrating cords transferred to a hum on his tongue, he bent down and wrote in his notebook the first words to enter his head.
“Barry.” He glanced at the flustered manager. “Any chance you can work your magic to polish me to a gleam in this room?”
“I guess. Why?”
Tristan smiled while scribbling out the next line in his chicken scratch. “I found the tale. Oh, and I need you to do one more thing for me…”
Chapter Eighteen
There was no descent of balloons, no eruption of fireworks, no standing ovation, but people at least smiled at her as Beth walked into Thorn’s offices the day after the article’s publication. ‘Congrats,’ they cried, some patting her on the back as if she’d won them a world series. It felt good to watch the numbers climb, the link-backs increasing as more and more outlets began to dissect and add their own articles on her short peek into Mr. Harty.
Passing the bank of monitors set up for video editing, she caught George working on splicing an old music video of Tristan’s into the next broadcast. It was peak late ’90s, with the backlit musician in an open shirt, baggy pants and the rain. So much rain. The two editors watching snickered. “Shitty dancer.”
A shame they couldn’t see him on the ice, controlled, collected, directing every inch of his body at his command. Or in the bedroom.
Beth flushed at the thought, her embarrassment quickly burning to shame and regret as she scuttled past without saying a word. Upon reaching her desk, she pulled in a breath and signed in to officially start work. New day, new celebrity to pick at. Or maybe her boss would finally let her dig into some real meat. He did just get a two-million-click article.
Boy, had he been mad at what she’d turned in, grumbling at the lack of sordid details or her once again refusing to use that picture. He’d said whatever happened was on her head, leaving Beth to pick at the drooping succulent at her desk while waiting for the order to pack up her things. Then a miracle from the sky had happened. It had connected, it had spoken to people and it had grown legs fast. By the end of the first day, her colleagues popped corks and toasted to the major increase in ad revenue.
Beth glanced at the side of her desk to find a brown box sitting where her notebooks would go. Ice squeezed her lungs. Had her editor changed his mind and decided she wasn’t worth the hassle? Heart throbbing in her chest, Beth reached for the box, when Emma strolled into the mostly open, one-walled cubicle.
“Excellent work, Cho,” her fellow entertainment r
eporter said. Beth smiled at the greeting, well aware of the barbs inside. While they were happy to support each other on the outside, everyone here was circling like sharks, wondering what strike they needed to make to hit it big next.
“Thanks. Got lucky. You know how it is.” Beth tried to shrug it off while glancing down at the box. It was taped up with a mailing label on the top, so probably not a sign she was being fired. A bonus? God, knowing her editor it’d be a sign that said, Get back to work.
Emma glanced from Beth’s confusing unboxing to the editor’s office. His door was shut, but everyone in the entire complex could see his silhouette ranting into the phone. “Word is, all the big networks picked up your article.”
“Oh?”
“Sounds like the Morning Show snagged Harty first to discuss it.”
Her hands froze, Beth pulling in a ragged breath. She’d tried to end it with him in that last period of her piece. As if publishing her article would erase the ache from her heart. How many here could tell that her smile was as phony as a three-dollar bill?
“He’s pissed that they didn’t tap him instead,” Emma continued, talking about their boss.
“I’m guessing he doesn’t care that I’m not wanted,” Beth surmised, watching the tight-lipped nod from Emma. Their editor was a known camera chaser, often starting feuds on social media just for the attention. But he was the owner’s something-or-other so he was allowed to fester like mold crawling across the printing press.
After yanking the packing tape off, Beth cracked open the box. A single white square envelope rested inside. Turning it over, she read her name, not printed in a fancy calligraphy font, nor done up in gold for a party. The hand was not illegible, but not particularly neat either. It pressed the ink deep into the paper.
Cracking open the envelope, Beth fished out a plain card. It was the simplest Thank You note one could find, with the declaration printed in black in the center and two gold lines outlining the edge. Not very creative or exciting, and it didn’t give her any clues as to who’d sent it.
With a haphazard toss of her fingers, she opened the card, glanced back to find her boss had finished his ranting and almost fell to the ground.
I read the article, the card said.
Oh, God! This can only be from him. He…he had to have read it. His people had known it was coming, but… Stop panicking, Cho, and finish this.
There was only one more line under that.
Call me, followed by the initials TH.
Little hard for her to do, what with her deleting his number. Not that she was exactly lining up to be berated for doing her job. That had to be it. His reason for sending her a cheap-ass card to remind her once again how worthless her work was. He probably found the ‘Thank You’ aspect ironic. What other purpose would this serve since he couldn’t even muster an apology in the card?
Emma broke away from their boss, curiosity leaning her closer to the box. “What is that?”
Closing the cryptic card and sliding it into the envelope, Beth finally dug into the package proper. Hidden below a scrap of brown butcher paper was…
A giddy laugh escaped from her lips as she pulled free a silver pouch. The label on the packet bore an image of a plate stacked with delicious pancakes. Pancake mix? He wasn’t mad. He wanted to apologize? To talk it out? To see if they could start again? He wants to see you, to… Shit, you deleted his number!
One of the most reclusive men in music, who had no social media presence, who went out of his way to avoid people, wanted her to find him…and she’d deleted his goddamn number.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
How in the hell could she get his attention? No way would he deal with his ‘fan services.’ No chance of them letting her through, not until it was too late. Not until…
“Tristan.” Beth spun to grab Emma’s arm. “Harty, when was he going to be on TV?”
“Uh, nine-thirty, I think. Why?”
Shaking her head made tears of joy fly off as she tried to calculate the chances of her getting all the way to Times Square before it was too late. Even if she made it in time, there was no chance they’d let her in. Not without help. Grabbing her purse, Beth left her coat on her chair as she dashed for the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Emma tried to stop her, but Beth was set in her course. Just before she rounded the line of monitors, she grabbed up one of the press badges for Thorn. Winding the lanyard around the badge and stuffing it into her pocket, she picked up speed running for the lobby. Half an hour until showtime, half an hour to catch him before he could be gone for good.
* * * *
“…and we’ll be back with an exclusive performance by Tristan Harty after the break.”
Karen, as she’d insisted she be called, turned away from the number two camera, though her smile didn’t dim until the producer waved a finger at her. Massaging her jaw, she said, “Interesting discussion, Mr. Harty.”
“I suppose,” he responded, glancing down to find he’d been digging his fingers into his knees the whole time. Beth’s voice flitted through his head, pointing out his own nervous tic to keep his thoughts in check. As her voice faded from his memory, an ache rose in his heart, one that Barry must have noticed as the man came rushing from the stage side.
Normally, the manager was left in the greenroom, if they bothered to let him into the studio at all. Tristan was hardly a minor who needed escorting from gig A to interview B any longer. He didn’t need Barry henpecking above him. But it was nice to have that familiarity as well. Almost as if the years hadn’t passed without him in the spotlight, despite the abundance of technology he wasn’t used to.
Frowning at the pancake makeup necessary for every person who walked onto the HD cameras, Tristan moved to run a fingernail under the slop when a producer stopped him. “Mr. Harty, we have you set up over here.”
The woman with the clipboard—at least that hadn’t changed—jerked her head to the side set. It was the typical Christmas village scene. Piles of flat white batting gave the illusion of snow stretched atop raised boxes. A single tree decorated in twinkling yellow lights rested beside it, and there was a snowman. There was always a snowman that looked nothing like the ones real children made.
“Kid, you’re doing great,” Barry cheered, then frowned at Tristan undoing the last button on his jacket and shrugging it off. “Uh…maybe you want to keep that on. For lighting, or whatever.”
Tristan knew it was really because, to quote the dresser, he was ‘skinnier than a birch tree’ and the jacket helped disguise the fact. But he was far more concerned about his second debut performance on live TV than his presentation. Passing the jacket to Barry, Tristan undid the cuffs on his crimson shirt and rolled both sleeves to his elbows. The ebony vest pinched to his midsection as he sat on the stool, but that could be ignored. It was also impossible to sell ‘professional adult’ with a vest partially or fully open.
After adjusting the guitar he’d tuned for the two-hour greenroom wait as the show worked through its other guests, Tristan glanced up. He stared through his manager to the captive audience whispering and checking their phones until they had to be silent once more. There were millions more beyond, all about to listen to his song. No doubt they’d wonder if he still had his voice or his skill.
And he was going to break the cardinal rule for performing live.
“One minute until we’re back,” the main producer called from his little booth.
“You better get off the set before they make you play a tambourine,” Tristan said with a smile to Barry.
A shudder at the thought rolled up his manager’s back before he paused and placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Break a leg.”
“I hope to break…something,” was his cryptic response. It was clear Barry wanted to ask more, but the line producer was shoving him away. With Tristan’s suit coat strung over his shoulder, Barry wandered outside the camera’s view with the rest of the non-talent.
The lights around h
im dimmed, leaving Tristan in the shadows of the studio. Only the yellows from the Christmas tree gave him comfort, reminding him of a lone fire in a snuggly cabin. It was time. He tugged the microphone closer as Karen stepped away from sucking down her smoothie, the makeup artist quick to retouch her lipstick.
Hands jerked beside the main camera, counting down to zero. “Welcome back,” Karen said, pausing for the polite applause of an audience growing bored after three hours of sitting. “Here with a song off his holiday-themed album is Tristan Harty.”
Spotlights clicked awake, burning Tristan’s vision to a crisp. Funny, he’d forgotten about that pupil-searing pain. But while blinking to focus, he tugged the microphone closer and excised a single scrap of paper from the back of his pants. “If you don’t mind, Karen, I’d like to play something else. This song is…exceptionally new.”
“Um…” In an instant, the studio was thrown into chaos. There was a backing track for the original Silent Night choice, which the sound guy was killing dead. The producer was whisper-shouting at everyone around him, no doubt wondering if they could yank Tristan from the set and go to more commercials. As for Barry, Tristan couldn’t handle the glare off his manager.
“Sure,” Karen cooed, as if anyone in the studio had the time or ability to stop him.
That was the one plus to doing this live. Pulling in a breath, Tristan started himself down a path he couldn’t escape. The music he knew by heart, each note simple on the acoustic guitar, but also earnest. Here he didn’t obfuscate, here he didn’t dodge. In his music, he was all of himself, even if most couldn’t see below the surface. Those, he didn’t care about. This song was for the ones who knew the heart below his ice shell.
Leaning into the microphone, he loosened his lips and let fly the words not even twenty-four hours old.
